There, in the specific corner of my closet, assimilating with the shadows, lies a winter jacket. One that I hadn't seen in years and hoped no one would see again, and yet I remember it so well. It was pink, puffy, and had two pockets, with a heart at the end of the zipper for each. I had worn it everyday to school when I was seven years old, as one would when something was their favourite item (and also, if it was the only winter jacket they owned in the snowy landscapes of Canada). Until, it wasn't anymore. All it took for my simple and innocent admiration for a piece of clothing was a hole on the soft coloured fabric. Well, more or so the laughter of those who had spotted it. It wasn't that big of a hole, really, but just big enough for it to fall to the eyes of another. Nobody hadmade it a huge deal, until, I showed up in the same jacket the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and the next day for the upcoming three weeks, the hole widening the same way the time was. For some, they found a circle etched onto fabric humorous, others found it sad. To me? It was just a hole, but that opinion had quickly changed, when their smiles became sneers, when their laughs became questions. Why couldn't she simply buy a new one? One would say. I asked the same question to my mother next day, she seemed to be one of those people who found the situation sad.
I didn't get quite get it. And so, when their questions became sticks to poke me with, I didn't know what to respond. And me, being the foolish kid I was, used my own weapon; against my mother instead. After all, she was supposed to have the answers to their questions, so why was she only responding with sighs? Why was I the one being picked on for words she couldn't provide?
And so, when I fell asleep in the dark of the night, after having slamming my door shut in my mother's face, I hadn't expected her to slip into my room with her feather-like feet, and sit in the late hours of the night, patching up the hole with a simple needle. It was amazing, when I truly thought about it years afterwards, how I had used my words against her as a weapon, and she had used a thin thread.
When I woke up that morning, I had worn the same jacket. The laughs had turned quieter, and the questions became more intrigued, but I was simply waiting for the bell to ring, and to utter two words to my mother I didn't know would mean the world to her;